


How You Looked in the Light

by PhoenixFlames



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Challenge: GK Battle 2010, M/M, POV Second Person, Prompt: Collateral Damage, team night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFlames/pseuds/PhoenixFlames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It falls apart as slowly as it comes together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How You Looked in the Light

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** _Collateral damage_ \- Damage that is unintended or incidental to the intended outcome
> 
> Thanks to [meeks00](http://meeks00.livejournal.com) for the super fast beta and the hand holding. I apologize for the second person but it's how Nate wanted to tell the story. The battle prompt was the perfect excuse to use this utterly heartbreaking personal prompt I've wanted to write forever. It even became part of the title. Hopefully, I achieved some of the emotion the prompt inspired.

_I thought I loved you_  
but it was just how  
you looked in the light.

 

You jolt forward into the dash, hands tightening around your M16, and "what the fuck" falling from your lips. What you see sends your stomach straight to hell to join your conscience. Bravo Two's humvees are at a standstill, jammed in against each other with comms a jumbled mess of static and words. You catch Baptista saying they're hung up on a pipe. Then you hear:

"There are men in the trees."

And all hell breaks loose. Tracers splinter the darkness accompanied by the roar of gunfire. You sit there helpless to do anything in the middle of the mess you lead your platoon into. You fire out the window, trying to end the chaos, while comms descend into even more confusion. The radio's clutched in your hand and nothing could pry it out right now. You're struggling to be heard above the rush of adrenaline and the thrum of gunfire.

Through the rapid cycling of commands and desperate attempts to glean information from your men in front of you, "MAN DOWN" filters through crystal clear. You don't know what the fuck is going on or who the hell could be hit. This needs to end right the fuck now.

You're not getting through, and the longer you sit here in the fucking kill zone means a greater chance that someone's going to die—someone who trusted you to lead them. You've only led them astray tonight. You slam the radio back into its place, pull your handgun out of its holster, and reach for the door.

You hear Mike say, "NATE!" and feel his hand reach for you, fingers slipping against your wrist, but you're not being stopped now. Your men need you. They need you to lead.

"Motherfucker! Turn it around. I'll be right back!" You slam the door behind you and stride toward the humvee right in front of you. You're waving your hand and shouting into Baptista's face to get his ass turned around. You're a dead man walking. You know this and you put it to good use. Two-Three flings gravel behind you but you're already shouting and waving at Two-Two to get their asses out of the kill zone.

Two-One's always been ahead of the game and now is no exception. As you run up they're already turning and you're useless, but you don't leave until they peel out ahead of you. The bullets dance around your feet, and distantly you're surprised you haven't been hit yet. The dark reduces everything down to the fire tracing through the air and the crunch of gravel being ground into retreat.

You're running behind Two-One and there's a victor pulled off to the side. You can make out Stafford beckoning in the back of it, and run around to the side, pulling yourself in while the bullets ring in your ears.

You're breathing while the back of the humvee fills with gunshots and jumbled words. Your hand won't release the door, and Mike's an ocean of silence beside you. The pitch and yaw of the humvee doesn't stop until you're far behind friendly lines. One last heave from side to side and everything quiets. Just the breathing of men who've been through the shit.

You're blind to the world and you grope for the M16 on the floor of the humvee then teeter your way out of it. At some point you must've holstered your handgun because when you reach down to check for it, it's there. Safe and buckled in.

Your face is a blank mask as you take stock of how your men did. Person's oddly quiet when you check on his humvee. Colbert's not there, but Reporter and Hasser are leaning against the side staring at the firefight going on far ahead of your position. They're safe. That's all that matters. Your next goal is Two-One Bravo. Espera sends a glare your way and you take that to mean no one's hurt. You find Two-Two scattered. Three of the team cluster around the humvee to assess the damage while Reyes off-loads Pappy onto a casevac. Are you imagining things or is there a hint of reproach in his eyes?

You can't deal with it now. You smack the side of the humvee and send Pappy off to get treated. Reyes is TL now and you tell him so. Two-Three was outside the majority of the fire fight, covering your ass. They have the least amount of damage and saw the least amount of action. You're headed back to your humvee and the reprimand you know is lying in wait when you run into Stafford and Christeson, Doc trailing behind them. You don't remember where you'd been when Stafford got hit. It feels like a failing on your part.

You want to get him proper medical attention, but he did his job. He kept firing from his sector even while wounded and then there's Christeson to consider. They're stuck in the back of the command humvee, charged with keeping your sorry ass alive. It's not exactly a prime job looking after your CO. It separates you from the rest of the platoon. You take another look at Stafford, then shoot a question Doc's way. He nods and you nod at Stafford. He can stay for now.

You head back to your humvee. Your hand clutched tightly around your M16. Adrenaline still pounds through you despite being far outside the kill zone now. The reminders of the pitched battle flare and echo from up ahead. None of it does anything to ease the tight wind of nerves under your skin.

Command's finally granted your platoon a bit of a reprieve. You don't have to punch through the town. No, that's now Alpha's shitstorm to deal with. The click clack of metal glancing off MOPP suit lets you know your body's coming down from the high. Your humvee's over to the left side of the gravel and you're dreading seeing Mike, but he isn't here. You walk around to the far side to climb into your seat and wait. You just need a moment to square away everything that's happened. You have to be combat effective and you simply aren't.

You pull the strap of your gun over your head and drop it into your seat then sag against the door, hands resting on the window, hands hanging into the humvee while you stare out the other side. Your mind goes blissfully blank and you know you shouldn't let it. You're behind your own lines but that doesn't mean something can't happen. It's happened plenty of times already. The chaos of war doesn't lend itself well to letting one's guard down.

The moment of reprieve is over when you're turned and slammed back against the door—6'4" of angry TL right in your face—"What, Brad, what's going on?"

He doesn't answer you instead his hands curl into the top of your MOPP suit. They're clenched so tight you can feel them shaking against your shoulders. You can't read his eyes in the dark. All you see is the glittering reflection of muted stars and the flash of explosions.

"Brad?" A low growl leaves his lips then they're pressed against your own. You gasp in surprise and the next thing you know Brad's sliding his tongue into your mouth. Claiming, possessive, as it strokes over your own. Your hands, useless 'til right, now reach up and grip the back of Brad's neck to tug him closer, deepening the kiss.

Everything fades into the background under the assault of Brad's kiss. All you feel is the short strands of Brad's hair under your hands, the rasp of his lips over your own as he tries to press you even tighter against the side of the humvee. The shout of Marines and gunfire buried under the roar of air support and explosions seems like the perfect accompaniment to this revelation of sensation.

The crackle of the radio jolts you both back into reality and Brad immediately pulls back a step. You lick your lips and reach blindly back into the humvee for the handset. You don't look away from Brad's gaze. You can't. The possibility of this has been lingering under the surface. From Pendleton through Mathilda, the easy way you communicated with looks and glances instead of words—it was there but you both ignored it.

You grunt a response into the radio and only half hear the words about moving out after the LAVs spill destruction onto the resistance surrounding the town and bridge. You fumble the handset back onto its stand with an embarrassed clattering. You repeat the orders to Brad and know he'll tell the rest of the platoon.

There's a beat then another before the silence fills with the sounds of war. You should say something. Something about how this can't happen. You're his CO for one. You're in the middle of a war for another. But nothing comes to your lips. Another moment and Brad's stepping back, still holding your gaze until he turns on his heel and leaves.

You sag against the humvee again and thump your head back against the metal. An explosion arcs overhead while you stare into the sky. For a moment you hadn't been in the middle of a war, hadn't been following orders and a CO you didn't trust. For a moment you'd been--

"Nate, you here?" Mike calls as he rounds the back of the humvee. Back to business.

"Yeah, Mike. I'm here. What's up?" You pull yourself together and reach for your M16, settling it against your shoulder.

"Just checking how you were after your suicide run." He rests one hand against the canvas cover stretching over the back of the humvee and looks at you.

The tone of your voice is flat because you shouldn't be his worry. "I'm fine. More worried about Pappy and Stafford."

Mike just gives you a look but lets it go for now. "Pappy'll be back soon enough and Stafford...if that boy didn't think he could be here he wouldn't be. Doc Bryan check him out?"

"Yeah—was the reason I let him stay. There wasn't any severe damage." Talking about your men like this unsettles you. "Everyone ready to move out?"

"We'll find out soon enough." He's still regarding you far too intently and you end the conversation by climbing into the humvee. You don't have the time to examine your response in the kill zone.

~*~*~*~

By the time you hit stateside the taste of Brad's kiss is a distant memory, but the feel of his gaze is like an ever-present God. You wish you believed in a higher power. It'd be nice to trust in something other than the fucked up mess that surrounds you. From Nasiriyah to Baghdad and the month-long sail home, you'd been doing a lot of thinking. Your platoon made it home. You aren't sure if you can say the same for yourself.

You and Brad still haven't sorted out whatever it is that haunts the air between you. You're not sure you should. The lines between officer and enlisted man snap back into place like titanium bars. When once there was time to talk briefly with Brad or any one of your TLs, it's now consumed by debriefings and the paperwork piled on your desk—like AARs are anything more than useless on this side of the war.

Lost in the midst of one report after another, you can't stop losing time to flashbacks, to memories that don't feel like memories. You can't stand to see more of that. You don't know if you can still be the dam withstanding the barrage of shit rolling downhill. You've cracked once.

It's easy enough to get the paperwork—to sign the lines, dot the is and cross the ts, you think you should feel more than numbed relief when you hand in the papers. You've gotten the process to become a civilian rolling. The thought you might not be able to do this flickers briefly then dies. You have to.

An hour later, you're in some hole-in-the-wall bar. The windows barely let light in despite it being mid-afternoon and your platoon overflows the tables. It's a dive that serves almost exclusively Marines. It's why you chose it to tell them.

You gather Mike, Brad—Ray too because he's always at Brad's side—Stafford, and Christeson. The words spill out slow from your lips, silencing the air between you. You're leaving the Marines. You're leaving them. You're leaving the possibility of commanding them to their deaths. You're not strong enough for that.

The look in Mike's eyes is resigned like he expected this and he nods when you catch his gaze. You trace your fingers through the condensation on your beer then steel yourself to look at Brad. You can't read him. Not an inch. Ray breaks the solemn mood with, "Wow, LT, nice way to steal my thunder. And here, I was looking forward to a proper gay ass Marine send-off and instead I've got to play second fiddle."

That gets a hearty chuckle. You reach out and clap Christeson on the shoulder. "You've still got Mike. You guys don't have to worry." His quiet "yes, sir" follows a nod, but he still doesn't look too happy. He and Stafford excuse themselves and rejoin another table. Brad and Ray drift off too and you expect everyone to know within minutes. You didn't want to leave this to the Marine gossip tree.

Mike unsurprisingly stays and glances around as he takes a sip of his Corona. "Not gonna be the same without you, Nate."

"You'll manage like you did before I came along." The half smile on your lips is painful. You don't want to say goodbye, but for everyone's sake you have to. One by one the men trickle by to talk to you briefly. All of them are sad to see you go. You've been good to them and they'll remember that because everything else was a clusterfuck. You know it. They know it. Only Command doesn't.

Mike only leaves the table to get more beers for the both of you. Even in this, he's still your stalwart NCO. It's appreciated more than he knows. You excuse yourself and weave your way through the crowded tables to the bathroom. It's barely more than a door and a couple toilets. The slit trench latrines in theater gave more sense of ease than this place.

You're splashing your face at the sink needing to clear your head when you vaguely hear the door open and shut followed by a click. Hands fist in your shirt and you're unceremoniously shoved into a stall. There are lips and teeth and tongue and the taste of Brad. You let Brad erase the past and the future from your sense of time, leaving only the present.

His hand curls insistent, possessive, against the nape of your neck. A leg presses between yours then up until you're gasping and arching into him. Your hands claw at his shirt, tear uselessly at the buttons until you growl and finally yank up. Skin on skin and you both hiss. You lock eyes and the deep blue of Brad's has you thinking you could fall forever.

A different time, a different place. No MOPP suits, no explosions—nothing but the press of bodies but familiar darkness encircling you. Illumination slides over the two of you in shadows and hints of expression.

You're the one that presses forward and initiates the kiss this time. You slide a hand up along his side to clutch at his shoulder and the other fists into the short strands you didn't get enough of a feel for last time. You're here, you're now, and every reason you shouldn't doesn't matter.

Brad growls into the kiss and teases your mouth open with his tongue. His fingers curl into your belt loops and drag you tighter against him. Any closer and you'd have to be naked which you're thinking might be the next step. Until Brad ends the kiss with a nip at your lips and steps back. Like the first time, there are words crowding the tip of your tongue but none fall. You're wishing either of you would say something, anything.

There's promise in the way Brad looks at you. At least you think there is, but too soon he's turning on his heel and leaving you staring after him yet again. You don't follow immediately. You adjust your jeans and wonder when the fuck your life got so fucked up. But you're getting out that means you get your brain back. Right?

~*~*~*~

You lean on the porch rail in Mike Wynn's backyard while you stare into the darkness. It's a hot night late in August. The beer sweating in your hand supports this. You take a sip then glance back at the house. You needed a break from the closeness of the men inside. You're stepping away from all that and...despite their claims you'll always be a Marine, some things do change when you drop the civilian back into your name.

It's been nothing but laughter and good stories, Reporter and his scribbling noticeably absent. Some things don't need to be immortalized in anything other than memory. Unlike the feel of Brad's gaze which has been hot on you all night. Nothing came from that encounter in the bar. You're not even sure what it was supposed to prove.

"Hey, Captain, get your ass back in here so we can continue properly sending you off." He turns to see Ray silhouetted in the sliding door, Budweiser in hand.

"I'm not your CO anymore, Ray." You laugh when he gives you a salute with his middle finger then continues to look at you. "Alright, alright, I'm coming."

You slide past him back into the drunken revelry of your men. Group to group they welcome you with open arms and more stories, not about the war but about what they returned to. You're a civilian now. No more divide between officer and enlisted. They talk to you and you let them.

It's late and not many are left. They've trickled out in twos and threes during the course of the night until it's you, Brad, and Ray hanging around inside. Rudy and Pappy the most recent to stumble out and you're thinking it's time to call it a night.

You're leaned back against the wall while you drain the last of your beer. Brad's only a few steps away. He shoots a look at Ray that has him taking off. You look at Brad and you're about to say something about how well he has Ray trained when there's an arm next to your head and the other on the other side boxing you in against the wall. Any and all words die in your throat when you look into Brad's eyes.

"You're coming home with me, sir."

~*~*~*~

It falls apart as slowly as it comes together.

He doesn't say a word when you apply to Harvard.

You move out of Brad's apartment while he's on deployment.

Morel dies in combat but that wasn't the only casualty.

You got out. (Brad's still in it.)

You couldn't stay. (Brad's career.)

You wish some things hadn't come to light.


End file.
